By Veeda Ware
I remember my dad standing in my 1st grade classroom, dressed to the nines in his Army BDUs. His presence was commanding. He was not there for show and tell, or even a parent teacher”s conference. This soldier took time off his lunch break to interrupt Mrs. Smith”s reading hour and lodge a complaint with the authorities about my missing-in-action crayons. Mrs. Smith was the scariest teacher in the 1st grade hall, and to confront her with any issue would be an act of war.
Over the past few weeks, I kept asking my parents for a new box of crayons. I was averaging about 24 every three days. Crayons were a necessity during art. Without them, pencil was my only choice of expression. Freedom of color was restricted and I was stuck with a black and white photo displayed at the “reject” end of the art wall.
With my dad”s keen military intelligent training, he quickly evaluated my MIA crayon situation. He knew even as careless as his 7-year-old daughter was, it was impossible for me to lose them all by myself.
He investigated the issue. With each new box of crayons, he even put my name on every single Crayola, each stroke of the felt tip pen marking my 1st grade social isolation. He might as well have scribbled “Loser” on the crayons because it screamed kindergartner. I didn”t dare drop one on the ground for fear another pupil would see it. There was no way I would lose the crayons now, I held on to them for dear social life. Still, my crayons went on disappearing. I was clueless where they were running off too. If was too embarrassed to use my cotton candy pink colored wax, I don”t know who else would be so daring.
It was at this point when my dad caught the classroom by surprise. He showed up, unexpected and dignified looking. Years of military training showed as he surveyed the room, reading the fear in our eyes. All the kids gaped up in awe as my dad confronted the enemy. Mrs. Scary Smith. She scoffed at his theories of a classroom thief and disregarded my creditability. I was nervous. My social acceptance in class wavered. Classroom snitches and babies are intolerable. I would have to eat lunch by myself, or even worse. The class might make me eat my own crayons.
Suddenly-as if he had radar vision- my dad reached into my neighbor”s pencil box and pulled out a crayon. It was the classic search-and-seizure rescue mission; he went in swiftly, confidently and rescued the hostage. A yellow crayon with my name printed in big bold letters shined between his fingers. The crayon was the victory flag that won the war and caused me to admire my military dad even more. He stood behind his country and daughter, protecting the freedom of crayon users worldwide.
During recess, I was class hero for my part in stopping the crayon terror. The War on Crayons was over. I didn”t realize other kids were also missing art supplies, but were too afraid to speak. Luckily, someone heard my distress and cry for justice. By lending a helping hand for my suppression, he ensured liberty and the pursuit of creative happiness for all.
I wonder how many people live in fear over stolen crayons and suppression. I am grateful for the men and women in the Armed Forces, our fathers, cousins and family members, who sacrifice their lunch breaks and lives to help us gain our freedom.
